


And So It Begins

by DixieDale



Category: Garrison's Gorillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:27:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22745527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: One version of how things began for Garrison and the men of his team.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 6





	And So It Begins

General Collins frowned, looking down at the troublesome file in front of him. Well, BOTH files, actually. The file on the project and the file on the man being proposed to take over the project. 

"So how do we approach him? How much do we tell him about the project in order to get his full cooperation? Oh, I know we can brief him on the concept, order him to take the job, give him his marching orders; that's not what I'm asking. 

"I've read his record; we all have. He's qualified, certainly, at least on paper and from his record. The question is - do you think he's that pragmatic, to accept the concept the way it was originally presented, the way the originators thought it should be handled? This Lieutenant Garrison, he's quite different than Lieutenant Wilson, you know, in some quite unexpected ways. Could impact the project in some quite unexpected ways too, those differences."

Those at the table thought about that; for at least one of the men, it was obviously a new, rather surprising thought. One had looked slightly uneasy, as if it perhaps might NOT have been such a new thing to him. The last was trying desperately to hide his concern that the General had picked up on that so quickly; it wouldn't do for that hesitation to turn into an outright rejection.

Yes, Lieutenant Wilson HAD been that pragmatic, if that was the best word for it, as had been his superior. 

As the original plan had been put together, the convicts for any particular job would be selected based on the skills needed. They'd be offered a deal - parole - in return for their services. That there would be little chance of them ever attaining that parole, well, that was something to be glossed over, though that was something that Lieutenant Wilson had known, agreed most heartily with. After all, as he'd plainly set it out in his own hand, the men could be useful, but releasing them back into society afterwards was hardly the best thing for society at large. After all, there were several good reason those men were in prison in the first place. Reducing the initial burden on the prisons, eliminating select military strategic targets, then reducing the risk to society - really, quite efficient, quite beneficial in any number of ways.

If Wilson had survived, as well as his superior, HE would have been put in charge of this new group. Would probably have run SEVERAL groups of convicts through the system by now, in fact. Pity, of course, both officers getting that fatal case of food poisoning after the sucess of that last mission. Mushrooms, of all things!

General Collins looked down at that file again, an uncomfortable tingling at the base of his skull. There were just too many lines connecting in his mind, too many points that either made no sense, or perhaps too MUCH sense. 

An interview with that female contract agent, Maeve O'Donnell, who'd accompanied Wilson and the team of convicts into the field would have perhaps clarified a few things, perhaps eased his mind, he thought. After all, there had been a troubling paragraph or six about her fierce and bitter accusations about that mission, but the blasted woman had gotten herself killed in a fall from a horse only days after Wilson and his superior died. 

And the two convicts who DID make it back, somehow their transfers back to prison had gotten all bollixed up, and they'd simply vanished, so no way to ask THEM any questions. 

Yes, too many things that might, or might NOT, be connected. And why did the notion that those mushrooms (and the result of them appearing at that celebratory dinner) had been in the way of a harsh message, or that the disappearance of those two convicts had been no mishap after all, keep running through his mind? There had been no opportunity for the convicts to have tampered with that dinner; they'd still been firmly in custody at that time. And no matter HOW the O'Donnell female had reacted to her concerns, her accusations being dismissed, surely . . . He shook his head in firm dismissal of any connection; no, coincidences DID happen, and this was just an unfortunate string of them tucked into one file folder.

Well, with every effort being needed now to aid in the war effort, even the older files and projects were being pulled out and reviewed, and someone had picked up on this as something worth trying again. It was agreed the idea had merit, and another Wilson had been the goal of that manhunt. 

But somehow, and the men in this room weren't quite sure how that had happened, it was Lieutenant Craig Garrison's name that had come to the top of candidates. Come to the top, with some pressure being applied from unnamed sources to remain there - for him to be the one chosen.

The problem was, as General Collins saw it, Lieutenant Craig Garrison was a very different type of man from Lieutenant Wilson. Both were, in their own way, the epitome of that 'an officer and a gentleman' that the military held in such esteem, but there were still significant differences that Collins could see. 

After all, Garrison was the one who'd managed to interfere with that hazing trend at West Point. AND there was some mention of his interfering during an incident regarding a fellow officer and a young native woman in North Africa. Perhaps a bit of a Boy Scout, as unlikely as that would seem. 

Still, was such a man the proper one to take on an assignment like this?

{"This just might take on a different turn, one I'm not convinced is a good idea. Still, Pemberly seems quite set on Garrison, enough I have to wonder if he wasn't the one to put the man's name forward."}. 

General Pemberly had disclaimed that when asked, however, snorting at the idea. 

"I don't know the man, personally, and don't have the time or inclination to take on the job of vetting him beyond what we've done here. After all, this is one of a hundred or more things on my desk; I imagine it's the same for each of you.

"Have to admit, though, a different slant just might be beneficial. It seems to me that maybe the original concept was a little short-sighted. You go to the trouble of finding the right men with the right skills, seems a shame to think of them as a one-shot. With any luck, could get several decent missions out of them before they go toes-up. Just seems more efficient that way. Would take the right leader, of course. Lieutenant Wilson wasn't the man for that, obviously; his disdain for the weapons put at his disposal was most apparent. Just maybe this Garrison might have a better touch. Though he would have to be quite careful about WHICH men he chose for his team - skillfull, talented, yes, but perhaps less violent in nature than what Wilson selected. Not every task requires a hammer, and a tool box containing only such is less useful than one more completely outfitted. After all, sometimes something a bit more specialized is all to the good."

No, Pemberly hadn't chosen Lieutenant Garrison, but when he'd read the file, he'd seen something there, something MORE than what it appeared Lieutenant Wilson had had. Maybe, something LESS? In any case, he had a feeling this Garrison was exactly what the situation called for. 

And that shadowy figure who was pushing for Garrison being the one selected? To their mind, being practical and efficient was one thing, being malevolent was something else. Being pragmatic as to probably losses, that was required perhaps; going in with the notion that those losses were not so much a side effect, an acceptable cost, but an actual part of the overall goal? That had far too much of a Faustian, or maybe Malthusian, note for their taste (perhaps some distasteful combination of the two?); after all, weren't they supposed to be the 'good guys'? 

Lieutenant Craig Garrison hadn't volunteered for this assignment, never would have even considered doing such a thing even if he had known of the possibility. 

Oh, there had been rumors here and there, about special teams being formed to go on desperate missions - really 'special' teams, NOT of a similar makeup even to the sometimes more eclectic ones of Special Forces or Special Ops - but the rumors were so totally off the wall, he and just about everyone else just shook their heads at the totally ridiculous things being whispered about.

Now, after being called to HQ to discuss 'a special assignment' involving 'a rather specialized sort of a team', he sat on the first of a row of wooden chairs, laughed softly to himself as he remembered all those rumors. He wasn't quite sure which was his favorite, but he was sure what he had been summoned to discuss would be nothing like what was being whispered in the halls or at the corner tables at the bars and clubs. 

There was the one about a secret league of shapeshifters, mostly werewolves, who worked as Contract Agents. Another focused on witches and warlocks aiding the war effort, helped along by a variety of familiars. Oh, and mustn't forget the one about the Fae getting involved, leading enemy soldiers off into bogs, never to return.

There was one about scientifically-altered animals, now able to think and mind-speak with their human 'Handlers', being used to infiltrate the enemy's headquarters and households. That was amusing, of course. 

There was even talk of Aliens being involved, though whether supposedly from Mars or Neptune or the moon, or wherever, no one had really tied down.

Somehow, the story, one he HAD heard mentioned from slightly more reliable sources, about convicts being used for suicide missions, that had seemed almost as unbelievable - after all, why would convicts ALLOW themselves to be recruited and SENT on suicide missions in the first place? That was almost as unbelieveable as the current rumor that the mob was adding a little espionage on behalf of the Allied Command to their usual retinue of more illicit and illegal endeavors.

Within the hour, though, he was reading the file put in front of him, frowning as he tried to make some sense of what he was reading, what was being explained to him. 

His sixth-sense was telling him he wasn't getting the whole story, either from the file or the verbal explanation. While that annoyed him in general, still, the military was known for its 'need to know' mentality, and he was used to it by now, and was getting quite adept at filling in the missing pieces. He thought of it as an exercise in three-diminsional chess.

Still, the idea was intriguing. A team of highly-skilled men to take on jobs an ordinary soldier, even the Special Ops or Special Forces teams, might not have the capacity for. Men skilled in things few 'honest and upright' men would have any idea about - convicts, as that one rumor had indicated. With him leading them, finding ways to do the impossible, or at least the highly-improbable. Tempting, yes, quite tempting. After all, although the military didn't know it, he had a few of those special skills himself, courtesy of Uncle Jake and family.

"I'd like to talk to this Lieutenant Wilson, see what he thought about it, how it worked, other than the obvious," he'd commented, noting the swift glances the men gave each other before they explained that wasn't possible.

"Food poisoning, you say, him and the senior officer in charge," he looked at them steadily. "And no one from the team survived? Or at least, is where I could talk with them?"

"A most unfortunate occurrance, yes, Lieutenant. And while three members of the team, other than Lieutenant Wilson, DID make it back alive, two have disappeared, and the third, a Contract operative, died very shortly thereafter in an accident."

"The two who disappeared - what can you tell me about them?" Garrison asked, his suspicion-lump quivering, knowing he was being, if not lied to, strongly misled.

There was a slight hesitation, then Colonel Garwood gave what he probably thought was a reassuring look, and an explanation of "it was thought the best place for the two convicts was back in prison, at least for the moment, until those in charge could get things sorted out regarding the operation, you see. Thought there might be other questions that would need to get resolved before proceeding with their paroles. Somehow, and I have NO idea how that happened, they were, well, 'misplaced'. Some confusion, some mixup, and the two men who arrived at the prison turned to be two quite different prisoners, destined for a totally different location. Still has the authorities more than a little bewildered, I must say."

{"Un huh!"} Lieutenant Garrison thought to himself, not being nearly as naive as the senior officer seemed to think. 

{"If there was a deliberate switch, from the outside - the logistics of pulling something like that off would be interesting as hell. If the switch was from the inside, that would rather undermine the level of dedication HQ has to keeping their word. Provided, of course, the two men really did honestly disappear, if even THAT is the truth."} 

And that very, very casual 'it was thought the best place for the two convicts was back in prison' was something he made due note of in the back of his mind, along with that ruffling of the hair on the back of his neck, wondering if the two 'survivors' had actually survived very long after their return. {"Twelve men, one woman, plus the officers - all either dead or missing, ten of the men during the mission, the others within days afterwards."}

By then he was taking the whole briefing with a load of salt that would have seen Minneapolis through a whole winter season.

"Well, Lieutenant. What do you think?" Garwood asked, carefully, not pressing, not wanting to prompt an outright rejection of the idea. Whoever was in charge, or at least whoever was working behind the scenes, really was in favor of the officer in charge being this young American West Point graduate.

"It has possibilities. It would take the right men, the right assortment of skills," Garrison responded, a thoughtful look on his face. "But twelve is too many men for a team like that, unless you are using them simply as cannon fodder," he said, as he gave them a blandly-questioning look. 

{"And the men who were chosen - more heavily-weighted toward those of violent, brute force, rather than technical or other specialized skills. I can think of several skills I'd want on a team of that sort, but I don't see much effort was made in that direction, even with there being such a large number involved, except in a couple of cases, like that one who knew trains or the forger. So, cannon fodder might just be the right term."}

Garwood again glanced at the others and cleared his throat. Well, cannon fodder wouldn't be far from the truth, but somehow they all knew that was something this officer wouldn't respond favorably to, unlike Lieutenant Wilson who'd had no such qualms as long as HE could figure out how to make it back alive himself.

"Oh, absolutely not, Lieutenant Garrison. An honest exchange of services in return for a fresh start. Well, a CHANCE for a fresh start - a parole, not a pardon, of course - but still a new start at some level. Dangerous, of course; this IS war. But hardly cannon fodder!

"And, too many men? Don't you think you would need a goodly number to get the job done?"

"Not with the right men, Colonel. Men with not just one talent, but each with a variety of talents. Twelve is too many to form into a solid team, and a team is what is needed - men who can work together and balance each others' skills. 

"I think four good strong men would be best, five at most. If I DO take on the job, I would need to have the final say in which men would be considered, and also the final say in which will be approached to participate. If I am to lead them, direct them, control them, I have to have confidence in my choices. THEY have to have confidence in ME, in why I chose THEM."

There had been disagreement there, but considering the pressure being brought to bear, General Collins and the three other men had finally agreed to that, AND the other requirements this increasingly-annoying young officer had insisted on. It seemed that if they wanted him, they were going to have to go along, at least in the beginning.

So, he listed out the talents he thought would be most beneficial, and although the list raised all of their eyebrows, it was promised he would receive lists very shortly, lists to be put forth by the various prison wardens in the various prisons to be involved. 

Special Housing was put to work finding a location that met Garrison's carefully-outlined requirements - privacy, security, certain physical factors.

And they sat back and watched, not having a great deal of hope that Garrison wouldn't come a total cropper, but as one officer put it, "the cons won't be a loss, no matter what, and Garrison might learn a thing or two in the meantime. IF he comes through it alive, and with his odd way of looking at things, that's certainly in question."

One of the other men snorted, "I'd say he's either going to be very successful or fall flat on his face; I'd put my money on the latter, frankly."

It was easy to see the military thought of them as 'less', in so many ways. His insisting on meeting his top candidates and the alternates, face to face, not just go by the files, that hadn't gone over so well, but he'd insisted and they gave way. It had been even harder for Garrison to argue successfully for that initial training period, get the funds and privacy and security he felt was necessary, but he'd gotten his way. There were enough in the chain of command who wanted to have this work, though not all for the same reasons, of course. Well, wasn't that always the way? 

So the ones who stood behind him, (at least for awhile), they ruled the day; and the others, those who thought he could take convicts straight out of prison and dump them into field operations with no time in between, probably keeping them in the stockade between missions, they gave in, (at least for awhile), 

Garrison knew better than to think he could move the team straight into field operations. He'd gone through military training. He'd been a soldier in the midst of the fighting in North Africa and elsewhere before he was brought into this assignment. He'd worked solo operations behind the lines, some others with Special Forces or Special Ops teams. He knew, better than most, what could happen, what could be required of a man in the field, knew the physical and mental conditioning required.

If he was going to lead these men into certain danger, was going to demand they give their best in the cause (whether the cause of the war effort or that promised parole), he had to give them a fighting chance of making it through alive. No guarantees - there were no guarantees for anyone, himself included - but at least a chance.

These men weren't seasoned, battle-hardened men of action. They had skills the regular soldier wouldn't, yes, which was why they'd been recruited in the first place. But there were skills a trained soldier had, at least in most circumstances, that these men didn't. Prison life might be rough, hard, dangerous, but not in the same ways.

And it wasn't like these men would be going out there wearing a name tag saying 'not a soldier', like that was going to let them avoid all the physical and other challenges that would be coming their way. Neither the enemy or Fate itself would take that into consideration, cut them any slack.

This wasn't a play or novel or movie, for heaven's sake, where the action could fade out or stop when things got physical and just switch to the next scene! And there were no do-overs, second-takes if things went wrong! This was war, real life, with the very real possibility of injury, death, or worse. And, yes, there was worse; he'd seen examples of that.

So while he'd first gone over the files, the lists of potential team members, to assess each man's talents, he'd also sat down and made a list, what had been required of HIM, what he knew HE'D been so carefully prepared for, would need to be capable of now. Not just from his military training and experience, but also some experience from a very different source, his Uncle Jake and Jake's wife's family - a family consisting of very talented thieves and con artists.

So - weapons, hand-to-hand fighting, running, climbing, swimming, handling vehicles, language skills, team work and cooperation, impersonations, the running of a superb con, and much, much more. He doubted he'd be lucky enough to find even one man with skills in each of those areas, but perhaps, enough men with SOME of those talents, to where he could train them, build them into the men he needed them to be.

The selection had been less difficult than he'd thought; there were several excellent candidates, but there were four who caught at his imagination, teased his mind with the possibilities. There were two of those four who, once he'd met them, the young Indian with a deadly talent with a knife, and the slender Cockney pickpocket, teased at something deeper, an urge to - what, protect? That didn't make a lot of sense, but he took note of it. Just because he didn't understand it, didn't mean it should be ignored. Professor Milford from his college days would have slapped him upside the head if he'd done anything that foolish!

The selection had taken time, though not as much as he'd have liked to have given it. Still, except for that last man, Wheeler, the one he'd been forced to take in order to get the con man he knew he really wanted, he was cautiously-optimistic with his choices. Yes, there were liabilities to each man, but some strong talents there as well. Now, how was he to turn these four, well, five, very different men into a strong team? And, along with that daunting task, how was he to prepare these men for what they would face in the days to come?

Now his focus shifted once again to anticipating what his guys would need to know, need to be able to do, and then, how to see they got that, whether over their objections or anyone else's.

And once they were in place, once training started, he continued evaluating each man, for those skills and for other things as well - temperament, any hot buttons, weaknesses - any insights he might come up with for the task at hand.

And, at the end of the evaluation, he wanted nothing more than a stiff drink. Well, maybe a magic wand would help too. Or maybe a time machine to go back and change that acceptance to a polite but firm declining of this 'opportunity'.

Sighing heavily, he went back to the copious notes he'd made over the past week.

Some things could balance out. Chief and Casino and Wheeler all knew vehicles, claimed they could drive, fix or disable most any kind. That was good, because Goniff was probably the worst driver Garrison had ever seen; two slightly-mangled jeeps and one slightly-dented pickpocket had proven that. Actor was good enough, but in his own words, "I'm really more the 'officer' type, Craig; I would rarely be in a position of driving myself, surely!"

Chief was damned good with a knife, Actor the next in line there. Both competent, sure of themselves and their skill. Casino had never tried before, prefering to rely on his fists, and Goniff just got wide-eyed and skittish at the whole idea. Wheeler was good, but in a different way; something about him made Garrison very careful not to turn his back when Wheeler was holding a knife.

Guns? Pretty much the same - Chief and Actor were reasonably accurate. Casino just shook his head, told Garrison, "some a the cousins used one, but my old man woulda beat the crap outta me if he'd caught me with a gun. He figured you'd end up doing less time if you stayed away from all that bang-bang shit." Still, he caught on fast, and was showing some real natural talent.

Wheeler bragged, which seemed his basic operational mode right along with bullying, but his scores didn't back up his bragging, and he always seemed to have an excuse of some nature for that. Someone bumped him, or the sights were off, or a bird distracted him - something, anything.

Goniff? He was a worse shot than he was a driver, and that had to set a record as far as Garrison was concerned. Maybe if they could ever get the pickpocket to keep his eyes open while he pulled the trigger that might help. Garrison knew one thing; putting an automatic weapon in those otherwise-talented hands was a risky business, and not just for those at the other end of the barrel, but for those anywhere in the vicinity, even those along side or to the rear!

Goniff shone at the climbing, balancing across rooftops and balcony railings with astonishing ease, but was lousy at running straight out at anything other than a trot. And how someone who could dash across roofs and up the sides of buildings could trip over a crack in the tile and send himself and anyone near him sprawling, that was anyone's guess. Not to mention, his hand-to-hand fighting skills were non-existent. Of course, he was wary of damaging his hands, "delicate instruments, they are, lieutenant. Can't be too careful."

But the pickpocket could swim surprisingly well, only Chief and Garrison were able to keep up with him, the others trailing out behind him according to their own skill level.

"Same muscles for that as for the climbing, Warden, more than not," was the breezy explanation given.

The others? Most were reasonably agile in the water, though Wheeler was the least skilled, having to depend on bulk and force rather than grace to get him through. Still, they could all swim; if not as well as the pickpocket, at least enough to form a base, but all except Goniff needed to seriously improve in that capacity. 

"Hell, Warden! How much swimmin' you think we're gonna end up doing in the middle of a war?" Casino complained after one intense session that left them all breathing hard. 

Garrison remembered more than one occasion when water was the only way out, and retorted, "a hell of a lot more than you're thinking, Casino. We'll do this again tomorrow. I want you all matching Goniff's time across the lake by the end of the week, or coming damned close!"

Casino didn't like that much, snarling at the pickpocket in mock annoyance, but he and the others did react quickly and forceably to back down Wheeler, who'd cornered Goniff later with a raised fist and a demand to "slow down next time, or I'll slow you down! Not gonna break a sweat just cause you're trying to show off!"

Languages? Casino's Italian was less than what you might have expected, his Spanish and French and Portuguese pretty much limited to what skills he needed to order a drink or meal, or to proposition a woman. Actor seemed to speak, understand and read a remarkable number of languages and dialects. Wheeler knew a little Italian, not much, mostly profanity. Chief knew some Spanish, remembered some of the Apache dialect of his grandfather, though how much of a call he would have for that on the Continent was questionable. Goniff? He spoke English, and that was it. And even that, according to Actor, was debatable. 

"I am not quite sure 'Cockney' is quite the same thing as 'English'. I think he needs to just plan on not speaking at all. Perhaps at any time, including here!" Actor had said in a superior sneer, giving a regal look over at an unrepentant Goniff, laying out that game of solitaire.

Well, the pickpocket HAD just been tormenting the con man with his aimless chattering while Actor was trying to read. 

Casino had snorted at that, him finding the chattering a little annoying too, but quickly retorted, "gonna leave me the only one saying much of anything then. The Indian don't talk hardly at all. You - well, you don't TALK so much as you preach and lecture and brag, Beautiful. Don't see that's a hell of a lot easier on the ears than the Limey's chattering." 

He didn't even include Wheeler. The other four were forming some tentative threads of connection. Wheeler? Not so much. In fact, they avoided contact whenever possible, which boded ill for the formation of a solid interlocked team.

In their own lines of expertise, though, Garrison couldn't fault them, thought he'd chosen well (except for Wheeler, who hadn't been his choice in the first place, and Garrison was skeptical the man HAD any line of expertise besides brute force). Even Actor, possibly (probably) destined to become Garrison's eventual backup, had to admit the skills the others possessed.

In fact, during one of the conversations the two had, a conversation where Garrison found equal annoyance and amusement at the solid air of almost-equality (or was it discreet superiority?) the con man assumed, Actor gave his impressions of each of the men.

"Ah, Goniff. Yes, well - He is uneducated, of course; an unprepossesing individual, on the whole, and quite annoying in many respects. His incessant chattering I could do without, for one thing. However, I truly have not seen his equal at picking a pocket, and only one or two others perhaps better at the second-story work. It would be preferable if he had other attributes to add to the equation, fewer areas of weakness, but still, for what he has to offer, he should do quite well. It would be a mistake to rely on him overly-much in anything OTHER than his specialties, of course. And we will all be better off should it not become necessary for him to use firearms.

"Casino - well, I would say he is too much the rough, unpolished gangster type, except we have Wheeler to compare him to, so the impact there pales somewhat. Still, from what I've seen, Casino should be up to the job. He is in good physical condition, improves daily. He is a superb driver and mechanic. He has been able to open every safe you've tried him on, though he has not been under pressure, of course. It remains to be seen how he will perform when we are behind enemy lines."

Garrison nodded, but then interposed, "that's true of all of you, you know." 

The lack of any humility or self-doubt on the Italian's face, in his voice, was slightly grating. It would be interesting, Garrison thought, to see how well their con man would perform behind enemy lines, under the strain of battle; he wondered if that calm self-confidence would be shaken somewhat.

Actor raised an imperious brow and gave a confident smile. 

"Perhaps. We shall see, shall we not?"

He really didn't think there should be any doubt about HIS abilities, in ANY situation, and didn't much like even that gentle chiding, that tiny hint of doubt.

"So, what about Chief?" Garrison asked, curious to see what the sophisticated man would say there.

Actor frowned a little, the first sign of doubt, puzzlement now easing onto his face.

"That young man is rather more difficult to judge. Uneducated, yes, woefully, even more so than Goniff, but I sense a, well, a potential there. His skills are solid, those that he has, but he needs to expand those skills. It would be interesting to see just what he IS capable of. Of course, that means getting him to make the effort, and I doubt that will happen unless he lowers that wall in front of him. And truthfully, I am not sure that will happen."

Garrison nodded, very much in agreement with that synopsis.

"And Wheeler? What about him," Garrison asked, curious to see how Actor read the belligerant man he'd been forced to accept in order to get his other first choices.

There was silence. 

"Perhaps I should first ask how YOU see him, Lieutenant," Actor hedged.

A tight smile, and a quick "nice try, but I'M asking YOU, Actor."

A deep sigh was his response, and then a reluctant evaluation fell into the air.

"I find myself regretting he is a part of this. He is a bully, for one thing, and short-tempered, more so even than Casino. And for all his record claims as to his skills, all HE claims in the way of talents, I have seen little sign he is as talented as one might hope. It can be dangerous when a man claims skills he does not possess, especially if others rely on those claims. Oh, he is not untalented, physically anyway, but brute force seems to be his fall-back position in all matters. And, a word of warning, if I might be so bold. He has a certain 'reputation', or at least Goniff has heard things as have I, and his actions here would not cause me to doubt that. We are all watching our backs most carefully, particularly Chief and Goniff. I would suggest you do the same, and the others here as well."

Clarification of that warning, that Wheeler had predatory tendencies, especially toward blonds and anyone he considered unable to defend themselves, male or female, hadn't made Garrison any happier at having Wheeler around. 

"If that's the case, then I have to wonder why he was included on the list. In fact, why my taking the rest of you was made contingent on my willingness to take him as well," Garrison mused. He gave a wary look at Actor, obviously wondering if Actor was telling him the truth or trying some sly manipulation.

Obviously the tall Italian read that glance easily, gave a slight laugh, though without much amusement there. 

"Perhaps someone wanted him away from where he was to prevent trouble on their own doorstep. Or perhaps you just annoyed someone greatly, enough they were looking to affect your chances in a negative manner."

Garrison considered that, then nodded ruefully. "I suppose it could be either or maybe even both. I could see whoever was in charge of where he was being held wanting him gone. But as for me annoying someone? I do tend to have that effect sometimes."

So Garrison watched his back, and found it a little amusing that the other four men seemed to be watching not only their own but his as well. As if he needed their protection! There was no way Wheeler was stupid enough . . .

But then came the afternoon when he started doubting that. The afternoon he'd caught just a glimpse of a smirking, leering Wheeler in the reflection of that long mirror in the side hallway, saw the slight movement in his direction.

He'd tensed to turn and brace the man, order him back to the hand-to-hand practice where he was SUPPOSED to be, but a slight figure stepped in front of Wheeler with a sharp hiss of warning.

Garrison continued around the corner and paused, watching in that mirror, just to see what was happening. Acoustics were such that even a whisper was audible in that particular spot.

"You crazy, Wheeler??!" came from the Cockney pickpocket. "W'at are you doing, stalking 'im like that!"

"Wasn't doing nothin, but even if I was, what business is it of yours?" Wheeler growled in return.

"Gonna get us all sent back, you do 'im any 'arm! Sides, 'e's a good enough sort, for an officer-type!" Goniff scolded, but taking care to keep as far away as he could.

"You wanna take his place, blondie? You weren't so interested in that a couple nights ago - even got your buddies to step in between, I remember it right." That look on Wheeler's face changed from threatening violence to something different, something more, and Garrison felt his stomach twist in reaction.

Garrison saw that look in the Englishman's eyes, emotion he would hesitate to put words to, but panic mixed with indecision, then maybe a reluctant but firm resolve, though a resolve in what direction wasn't so evident, and he knew he had to put an end to what was becoming not only an uncomfortable, but probably very dangerous situation.

Turning, he strode around the corner, seemingly absorbed in the papers in his hand. Then, glancing up, stopping abruptly, as if he had been unaware til then that the two men were there, he frowned at them both equally.

"What are you two doing here? The hand-to-hand practice is in the side courtyard. Wheeler, get there, now! And you, Goniff! I'm tired of your sticky fingers being where they don't belong. You, to my office! We're going to discuss that last little escapade of yours!"

Wheeler gave a sarcastic salute, "yes, sir, Lieutenant sir!" and headed back towards the door, not moving any faster than a slow saunter.

Garrison yelled to the guard on duty at the front door, "Wheeler's coming down, now! See that he doesn't get lost! He's headed to the side courtyard! Double-time it, Wheeler, NOW!"

Goniff ducked his head and tried to give an innocent, hopeful smile, as he took note of that stern face, the finger pointing firmly toward Garrison's office, but wasn't overly successful at it. He was still swallowing hard from that encounter with Wheeler, still wasn't sure what made him do a crazy thing like that. Well, yes, maybe he did, but that didn't make it any less crazy!

Once inside he tried to assure Garrison, "don't know w'at your talking about, Lieutenant, really I don't. 'Aven't been up to anything special, truly I 'aven't!"

Garrison made a good show of letting himself be somewhat convinced of Goniff's recent good behavior. Well, that seemed best, as he didn't really have any idea what he'd intended to say, if anything, only knowing he had to get Wheeler out and away from the apprehensive man in front of him. 

{"How do you say 'thank you' when you aren't supposed to know there's anything you need to be thanking someone for? How do you say 'don't get in between, because I can take care of Wheeler a lot better than you can' without sounding damned ungrateful?"}

In the end he didn't say any of that, though there was a hint of a smile on his lips, in his eyes, as he admitted, "well, perhaps I DID misplace my lighter. I apologize if you really didn't take it.

"It's probably too late for you to be joining the others for the training; why don't you go give Sergeant Major a hand in the kitchen? And, Goniff, I want something left on the table for the rest of us when we come in for dinner!"

Goniff nodded and grinned sheepishly, and slid out the door. He was very careful not to touch the front of his tunic, considering the lieutenant might be watching him. No, he hadn't snitched the officer's lighter, but there had been that four-inch silver letter opener just sitting there. Not only was it a shiny, pretty little thing, it was sharp enough, sturdy enough, it just might come in handy, if need be. With Wheeler around, it just MIGHT be needed.

Later Garrison had Wheeler doing an extra round on the firing range due to his horrific scores last time around, and Goniff took the opportunity to give the other guys a heads-up.

"Caught Wheeler thinking of making a try for the Lieutenant. Best we watch out for that. Will get us all in a world of trouble, that will!"

They looked at the sincerely-worried face on the pickpocket.

"What happened?" Chief asked, surprising everyone, him not given to saying much.

A quick rundown had them looking at Gonifff in shock. 

"Damn, ya dumb Limey! Coulda ended up in real trouble steppin in between like that! Wheeler could break you like a twig! Hell, could be even Garrison mighta grabbed hold of the wrong end of the stick, figured YOU were up to something!"

"I think the lieutenant is smarter than that, Casino," Actor interjected, "but I will admit it was very risky. Obviously we are going to have to watch Wheeler much more carefully. And, Goniff? He is not going to forget your interference. Stick closer to us in the future."

Goniff got a stubborn look on his face, "and w'at about the lieutenant, ei? TOLD you, won't go good for us if Wheeler tries anything there!"

"Yes, yes, I agree. So YOU stick closer to us, and we will all stick close enough to make sure the lieutenant doesn't come to a bad end."

Actor sighed heavily, "somehow, I never expected so many complications, not this quickly."

Later, when Goniff was off doing something probably best unknown, since it involved a particularly tempting bit of sparkling fancy he wasn't supposed to even know existed, the other three exchanged worried looks.

"What the hell was all that about? The Limey don't stand a chance going up against Wheeler. What the hell was he thinking??!" Casino grumbled.

A flicker of not-quite-a-smile came to Chief's somber face. "Think Goniff is what my grandfather called - -". 

There was an awkward pause, and Chief was troubled when he realized that he could no longer remember the Apache word he wanted. That happened more and more as time went on, the longer he was away from the source.

He struggled to bring his mind back to the present, to the two men waiting at least somewhat patiently. "A protector."

Casino snorted. "A protector, huh? He's not big enough to protect himself, much less anyone else!"

Chief shrugged, "don't know as how that matters, the outside. If that's what he was born to be, inside I mean, that's what he's gonna be. Kinda surprised he's lived this long. Maybe a better word, or just as good - a mother hen."

"Why the hell would he think he needed to 'mother hen' Garrison? Hell, man's made it this far, through all the fighting and everything."

"Don't know. What I've heard, it isn't always there, just sometimes. Maybe the drive, the need, it's always there inside, just waiting, but don't come out til the one who's supposed to be doing the protecting meets the one or ones he's supposed to keep an eye over."

Actor frowned, not really believing any of that, but the scholar in him just had to come up with the correct term, something that better described what Chief was trying to say, something more elegant - had to come up with the correct terminology and enlighten his less-advantaged team mates.

"You mean, the instinct lies dormant within the individual until it is activated by exposure to the proper catalyst?"

Chief just looked at him for a long few moments, then shrugged. "If you say so. If that means what I just said, anyhow. Don't know the fancy words for it, just what it IS." 

He silently exchanged a roll of the eyes with Casino; somehow they just knew the con man was going to annoy the shit out of them eventually with all this 'I can do/say/think/act better than you can, and I intend to prove it at every opportunity' crap.

Casino frowned, letting the frown turn into a scowl. "Ya don't think the damned fool Limey's gonna try that shit on us, do ya? I mean, trying to 'mother hen' us and all? Been taking care of myself for a long time now; don't need no pint-sized nursemaid trying to keep tabs on me! Maybe I better have a little talk with him; make myself real clear about that! He wants to wet nurse the lieutenant, no matter how dumb that is, that's his nevermind, but he needs to leave me the hell outta the whole thing!"

"Yeah, Casino, you better go do that," Chief said with a solemn face, no hint of the amusement he was feeling inside.

Casino marched off to find Goniff and lay things out, nice and clear. 

"Do you really think that is going to accomplish anything, Chief?" Actor asked skeptically.

Chief gave the tall Italian an impassive look. "Sure it will. Oh, maybe not so much where Goniff is concerned, what he's likely to do, since I don't figure he really realizes what he IS doing yet, but it'll let Casino feel he's laying the law down. It'll make him feel better, probably. That's gotta count for something."

There was just an undercurrent of amusement there that made Actor a little uneasy. He sighed again. Yes, yet ANOTHER complication!

And, as a belligerant Casino cornered an incredulous little pickpocket in a rear corner of the Mansion where neither one were supposed to be, Chief was proved right.

"W'at do you mean, I ain't supposed to 'mother 'en' you, Casino? W'at gives you the idea I would??! Ruddy 'ell! Grown man, ain't you? Already spent a lot of years without me wiping your nose for you! Sheesh! W'ere you'd come up with a crazy idea like that, I don't know, and no, don't tell me again it was Chief, cause I just don't believe it! Just cause I don't want us going back to prison if that idiot Wheeler does something ruddy stupid! Can tell you right off, got more than enough on my plate trying to keep my own sorry self alive and in one piece, don't 'ave any notion of taking on any more than that!"

They were still arguing as they came back to the Common Room, but quickly stopped when they saw Wheeler had rejoined the other members of the team. Arguing among themselves was one thing, but Wheeler? They didn't consider him part of that 'themselves' thing, no matter how tenuous that concept was.

Garrison would have agreed with that comment of Actor's "yet another complication!" wholeheartedly. He had the feeling that the complications were piling up like a huge snowball rolling down a hill. {"Or maybe like a multi-vehicle collision!"}

And one last thing to make his life complete? That last briefing at HQ, before they left on that first mission, when he'd nodded at all the complexity, the risks involved, and commented, "well, if they make it through this, pull it off, they'll have EARNED that parole!"

There was that flicker of sideways glances again, the one he kept noticing since he'd been tapped for this job. 

"Ah, yes, as to that, Lieutenant. There seems to have been a slight misunderstanding. They will get their parole, yes. Well, any who survive and do their job. However, the parole is for any who serve through, faithfully, to the end. Actually, the duration plus six months is the way the official record puts it."

There was no time to argue; he was due at the departure point with only ten minutes to spare, but the steely look of disgust in his eyes was apparent to the two other officers.

They watched as he left, closing that door behind him with just a certain crisp 'click'.

"We're likely to have some trouble with him. He didn't like that, one little bit."

"Well, there's nothing he can do about it, is there? And besides, I have to say, I put the odds of any of them coming back from this little walk in the park at the low single digits."

Well, they had come back, at least five of the six who'd headed out, and what's more, they'd gotten the job done, even with all the twists and turns and changes involved.

Coming back, filling out the reports, the one he would actually file with HQ, and the one he'd prepare and memorize and then burn, Garrison shook his head once again at the differences between the two sets of papers. 

Well, he'd gotten experience at this, back in high school and later college, when his father had insisted on seeing whatever papers Craig was turning in to be sure he approved with the ideas and opinions being expressed. Trying to balance that requirement with the equal and non-negotiable requirement for getting straight A's had necessitated writing TWO sets of papers for most assignments - one for his father to read and approve, another for his teacher to read and give a strong A grade on. There had occasionally been, at least to Craig's mind, the necessity for writing yet a third paper - one that truly expressed his OWN opinion and ideas, an opinion and ideas that might vary to one degree or another from either of those two critics. That third paper no one ever saw, except for himself, but it did clarify his mind when the two opposing forces created inner confusion.

"Well, for now there is only the need for TWO sets, not three," he consoled himself.

"Two sets, sir?" Sergeant Major Gil Rawlins asked, curious at the whole concept. "Three sets? Of the records, sir? Might I ask why you would need more than the one set for HQ? Other than a copy for your own records, of course; I quite understand you needing that."

Garrison blinked, having forgotten he wasn't alone in the office. "One to put my thoughts in order, then the official one, Sergeant Major. The first is for my eyes only, of course."

"Yes, sir," Gil Rawlins said, not really understanding that, but thinking it was something he probably didn't have to understand anyway.

Actually, Casino, who'd been eavesdropping outside the door, understood at least part of that. Ah, scratch that, rewind. Certainly none of the men would ever stoop to eavesdropping, or browsing through confidential files, or anything like that! To restate - Casino, who had been resting in the hallway for just a moment before tackling the stairs and just happened to overhear the two men, understood the concept better than anyone else around.

Up in the Common Room he repeated what he'd heard.

"Yeah, so it makes sense - two sets of records, sometimes three. Just like back home. One set for the government, one for the mob, one that's the real story so you know how you really stand. My Uncle Joey, he's even got four! Those three, and one set for my Aunt Louisa so she don't find out about a couple little cuties he's providing for on the side."

Goniff frowned in thought, "well, alright, I can see that. But w'at's the lieutenant needing more than one set for? Ain't got a jealous wife looking over 'is shoulder, not the mob neither, just those military blokes."

Actor was looking a little intrigued at the thought. "I do not know, Goniff, but it would be quite interesting to find out. We should all be on the lookout for opportunities to that end."

At least they could discuss such things in the open now - well, at least between the four of them. Wheeler was no longer in the mix, and although it had been a reminder of the hazards of their current life that the belligerant man hadn't returned with them, none of them could regret that. 

Wheeler was a problem, they'd known that from the beginning. Now, thanks to his own greed and aggression, he was no longer a problem, just history, one they'd just as soon forget. None of the other three blamed Chief, even though they had more of an idea of the real story than had been told to Garrison. Hell, the man tried to shoot one of them, damned straight they'd have done their best to take him out! They were just glad Chief was good enough with that blade to handle it!

And downstairs in the office, Garrison compared the two sets of reports, noting the things he'd added to the official report that he didn't really believe, including that account of Wheeler's death. 

He snorted to himself as he ran his eyes over the things he'd included in his OWN report that he'd omitted from the official report, including that bit with the men each ending up with their own quantity of the counterfeit money, as well as planting a portion on Garrison himself. And he sure as hell wasn't going to make any reference to Goniff and Casino already being OUT of those handcuffs before Garrison released them - Goniff by snitching the keys from Garrison without his knowledge, Casino by way of a piece of concealed spring steel. No, HQ didn't need to know that.

He did let himself give in to temptation by letting some of the difficulties with Wheeler stay in the official report. Well, he HAD argued against including the man from the beginning! Oh, nothing too dire; no sense anyone getting the notion that anyone on the team had anything to do with the man not making it back alive. Just enough to point out the bad judgement in making him part of the team in the first place.

In a way, he regretted the necessity for burning his own report, what was to his mind the REAL report. It would have been a good reference in the future, possibly a real help, and he knew he was going to need every bit of help he could garner. But it would have been too dangerous if anyone else found them, not so much to him, but for his men. That disturbed him, just a little, that out-of-nowhere need to protect them to that extent. 

{"In the field, yes, but elsewhere? And playing a double-game with HQ to do it? Probably not the best thing, nothing they ever mentioned at West Point certainly. I'm going to have to watch that."}

Still, as he sipped a glass of military-grade (ie. very bad) whiskey, he amused himself by preparing the report that would have been made if he'd been TRULY honest. By the time he had finished the second glass of whiskey, he'd finished. Reading the story of what had actually happened, the good and the bad, oh, and yes, the very ugly, both what he knew and what he suspected, he shuddered. {"No, HQ doesn't EVER need to see that!"}. 

Kneeling by the small fireplace in his bedroom, he carefuly, sheet by sheet, fed the first report, then that ever-so-damning third report to the flames. He somehow knew that fireplace was going to get a lot of action before this was all over.

**Author's Note:**

> Episode related: The Big Con


End file.
